shelling

When the sun finally came out this weekend, I went with my father, who was visiting, to the new edition of Brooklyn Flea under the Brooklyn Bridge. Afterward, we passed a small farmers market, where I treated myself to fresh strawberries, asparagus, and shelling peas.



There is a late afternoon time of day, in every house or apartment I have ever lived in, where I best like the way the sun floods the place. It was soaking the kitchen floor today as I sat at the counter and shelled the peas, listening to the Dark Was the Night compilation, the apartment empty except for me and the Professor.

I never take time to slow down like this, not in the city, and especially not during the week. And I never work with my hands. I ate the peas with butter and basmati rice. Maybe I was inspired by the delicious local summer food menu I had in Red Hook last night, but regardless, it was a treat.



Professor enjoyed chasing the peas I dropped, too.

I'm working on a fiction piece that's not going at all the way I thought it would (what's new). I've thought about it, and figured that fictional short stories can be harder than fictional novels because you have less time to spend with the characters, to flesh them out and give them weight to tell the story. Also, this is one of maybe two short stories I've tried to write that hasn't been based in my direct experiences. So much harder. At least, I tell myself, I'm writing.

word count: 704